


Seedlings

by Endangered_Slug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, CSA romance, F/M, Fluff, I mean I hardly ever write canon things, obviously, you should expect a high level of shmoop from me by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7498152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endangered_Slug/pseuds/Endangered_Slug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle uses the small strip of dirt by Mr. Gold’s pawn shop as a secret garden. Mr. Gold is the fruit of her labor. Or the one where I regret already having used The Secret Garden as a title. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seedlings

* * *

 

Mr. Gold didn’t know what he expected to see when he walked up to work on a warm, sunny Tuesday morning, but Belle French crouched down in the small strip of dirt by the side of his shop was definitely the last on the list of possibilities.

He came to a breathless stop, the sight of her pert bottom lifted up in the air distracting him momentarily from the fact that she was digging around the foundation of his shop, garden shears in one hand and a pile of weeds set in a straw basket at her side.

This had to be a mirage. Or maybe Granny had spiked his coffee. But it wasn’t a mirage or a hallucination no matter what his tired brain was telling him or how many times he blinked his eyes. She didn’t disappear. In fact, all she did was move over a foot and began plucking leaves off another tall weed, placing each one into her basket with care.

He tried not to stare at her. Tried to ignore the way the fabric of her shorts stretched tight over her ass and the way muscles on the backs of thighs strained as she knelt forward to reach a part of the patch just out of reach and how her thin T-shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to her. But he was weak and she was beautiful and very much there. On his property. Her hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and hung over a shoulder, exposing the back of her neck — a prime spot to thoroughly kiss if one had permission.

A permission he had never been granted, nor did he ever expect it. He imagined it would take an act of natural disaster for the Sweet librarian to allow him any sort of liberties for any reason whatsoever. A hand up from a collapsing bridge perhaps, or a dashing rescue from a burning building maybe.

Not that he’d ever imagine those scenarios. Much. The strange desire to be a hero — her hero had long taken root in his imagination. Mainly because he figured the only way he would be able to touch Miss French, or hold her, or be near her for any length of time would only be under extreme circumstances. He didn’t precisely wish for a biblical sized flood, but if one were to happen, she would be the first person allowed on his boat. The only one allowed probably. Just the two of them, together on a small yacht, blissfully sailing away from everyone.

The entire idea was preposterous and it made him feel silly in the early morning light of real life and he could feel himself reddening with shame as he watched her, the stupid fantasies fluttering away in the back of his mind like a cobweb caught in a breeze and just out of reach of a broom. 

“What are you doing?” he asked once he recovered the breath her unexpected presence knocked out of him. His voice may have sounded a bit gruff, still. A tell that would give him away, and he wanted more than ever to keep a calm facade on as he dealt with the illicit gardening.

Startled at the sound of his voice, she looked up at him, shielding her eyes with a grubby hand, her nails and knuckles crusted with dirt. She caught sight of him and gave him a wavering, sheepish smile.

Her face was scrubbed free of all makeup. A vision surrounded by a halo of sunlight that he would absolutely have to forget later that night when he definitely wouldn't think of her and the way she might, if one were to imagine such things, look in the morning. In bed. After having been thoroughly ravished the night before. He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep those thoughts at bay. There was no need make things worse for himself.

“Oh, uh, Good morning, Mr. Gold,” she said in a contrite voice, fruitlessly brushing the dirt off her knees as she rose up to meet him. She wrapped her fingers up in each other, twisting and turning in embarrassment or guilt in front of her abdomen.

“And you, Miss French,” he said looking down at her with his head tilted to the side, eyes narrowing against the sun that decided just then to peek up over the building’s roof. “What's all this then? Are you doing community service? Did you get arrested and they ordered you to weed this dirty patch of mine?”

She blushed, two large splotches high up on her cheekbones, glancing back at her handiwork before looking at him. “Uh… Actually, I'm getting breakfast.”

He blinked at the unexpected answer, then, with a heavy frown asked, “don't they pay you, Miss French? You have to scrounge for food now?”

It was her turn to blink, her forehead scrunching up adorably. “What? No! No, I.. this is so silly, but you see my apartment is small and I don't have a lot of window space.” She turned her head, exposing more of her long neck, and he followed her gaze to her apartment above the library across the street. There were a few small pots on the window sill framed by white, floaty curtains.

“And you had this bare patch and I noticed you never use it…” she finished, apprehensively.

Gold looked back at the straw basket filled with things that might have a culinary use.

“You mean, you're using this bit of land as a rogue garden?” He asked, amused despite himself.

“Yes?”

He looked at the plot of dirt, mystified. He didn't like to think he was ignorant of what vegetables looked like in its natural state, but then, he'd never really tried to learn before. He grew up in the city where food came ready to eat in greasy paper packages. Fresh vegetables were a luxury back then and now he had his meals either delivered to his door or prepared by his housekeeper ahead of time. “Did you plant all these things?” he asked, mystified that all this work had gone on under his nose.

“I sowed some seeds,” she confessed, biting her lip in an uneasy smile that didn't quite sit well on her face. She stuffed her dirty hands into the back pockets of her shorts and rocked back and forth on the heels of her feet looking every inch the naughty schoolchild who had just been caught doing something she oughtn't.

Except Miss French was no schoolchild.

He raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for the rest of it.

“And transplanted some tomatoes. And weeded. And added some compost... and I watered every morning.”

He took in a sharp, deep breath amazed at her daring. Every morning. Every morning she had snuck out to do a bit of guerilla gardening. And he'd missed it completely.

He looked past her and peered in her basket. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked not really recognizing anything. Leaves, leaves and more leaves and a few things poking out on top. It was all varying shades of green and a bit incomprehensible.

“Oh. Um, an omelette with fresh herbs and I have a little bit of kale. And the lettuce for my salad at lunch. It's still pretty early in the season. I'm still waiting for things to, uh, ripen," she finished with a nervous giggle.

“Why didn’t you just ask me if you could use the space,” he said.

Belle opened her mouth to answer then closed it again, pressing her lips together tightly before bursting out, “I didn’t think you’d notice?”

He let out a small huff, mildly annoyed. But she was right, he didn’t notice the burgeoning community garden just outside his shop. He felt like a fool for missing it, but that wasn’t Miss French’s fault. Still, she was trespassing and he was growing hot standing out in the morning sun.

“Well,” he said, testily. “I’ve noticed.”

She swallowed, nodding her head. “I could-I could rent the plot maybe?” she asked, tilting her head to the side and looking up at him, the blue barely visible underneath her long lashes. “It would be a shame to waste all this food and I’ve put in so much effort. The tomatoes haven’t even ripened yet.”

Ah! No wonder he didn’t recognize it then. He’d have thought he’d know a tomato on a vine at the very least. Tomatoes were easy to spot. They were red and he knew they grew tall. That was about it. He wondered exactly how long she expected to get away with this before he found out and what her plan was. Well, he supposed he just found out.

He should have told her to rip everything out. He should have called Graham to have her fined (he was sure she was breaking some kind of ordinance). He should have charged her an exorbitant fee to rent the plot — it wasn’t even a large plot, barely three feet by six feet, but he knew he was in the right and could be a bastard about it if he wanted to be.

Instead he just shrugged and told her, “It’s no matter. The plot was just a patch of dirt before.”

She gaped at him. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, completely unsure about what he was doing, but completely confident that he didn’t mind as long as it was Belle French doing the gardening. “Yeah. Yeah, it was… It looks much nicer now. And useful. You may, uh,” he waved his hand, rolling it around until he found a good word. “Keep going.”

Well, maybe not a good word, but it sufficed. 

The change in her demeanor was instantaneous. Her shoulders relaxed and her face broke out into a beaming smile that rivaled the sun in its brilliance. “You mean that? Thank you so much, Mr. Gold! I promise you won’t even know I’m here. You know, _when_ I’m here,” she clarified with a breathless little laugh, bouncing a bit on the balls of her feet.

Easy enough to believe when he hadn’t known she was there before. He merely nodded once more then began to walk away, the urge to ask

“Here, wait!” she said, coming up suddenly, pushing a sprig of something fragrant into his hand. “It’s rosemary. For remembrance.”

So that’s what rosemary looks like fresh, he thought. It had always come to him in small jars, dried and stiff and pokey and impossible to use. He looked at it, then at her in confusion. “I promise you I won’t forget our deal,” he told her, handing it back.

She didn’t take it, but looked at him with a little frown. “Well, yeah, but… It smells nice doesn’t it?” she urged.

It did, but he didn’t know how to convey that without sounding like a complete parroting fool. He smiled tightly, the rosemary clenched in a fist. “Good day, Miss French.”

“Bye,” she called after him, softly.

He refused to look back at her no matter how much he wanted to.

He stood at the counter staring at the crushed leaves of the herb and wondered if she was still outside. There weren’t any windows on that side of the building and he could see nothing going on out there. She had chosen her spot well. The rosemary did smell wonderful, he thought. Perfuming the air of the musty shop with an unexpectedly powerful scent. A bit woody and a lot fragrant and just… green. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He looked around the shop, noting the dusty artifacts that no one wanted. There was a lot of gray to be seen. He could use a bit of green in his life. Maybe that was why he didn’t call the sheriff on her.

If it was anyone else he would have. If it was anyone other than Belle French, with her sweet smiles and short skirts and the way she always stopped to talk to him despite his reputation, he’d have had them hauled off in cuffs. It was a double standard. He knew that, but as it affected no one but him, he chose to ignore it. Miss French could have her small garden — at no cost — and he could have the dubious pleasure of knowing that he wasn’t a complete and total bastard.

He placed the herb into a small apothecary jar and set it aside next to the cash register.

Rosemary for remembrance she said. Well, it smelled nice.

* * *

 

Three weeks later Belle came bursting into his shop, all sunshine and fresh air, holding a small basket filled with what looked to be the fruits of her labor. She came up to him, eagerly and set it on the counter in front of him with an eager smile spread wide on her pink lips.

Amused despite himself, he looked at the contents and identified (thanks to extensive googling) several varieties of lettuce, the touted kale, more rosemary and herbs, and what looked like the world’s smallest tomato in existence. The vines had finally started ripening and he liked to see the cheerful red against the pale green off his shop whenever he walked by.

He smiled crookedly at her, his eyes twinkling with the anticipated conversation. “Come to pawn these, Miss French?”

She giggled, a surprising, tinkling sound that sent his heart skipping an alarming few beats. “Of course not, Mr. Gold. It’s your share.” She leaned over the counter, her arms folded in front of her. “We have a CSA of two,” she confided even though there was no one in the shop to overhear.

He stared at her open-mouthed before he blinked and told her, “You don’t have to give me anything, Miss French,” he began, but she interrupted him, waving that off with her hand and sending him slack-jawed once more. No one ever interrupted him.

“It’s too much for just me,” she said. “And half the fun of gardening is giving some of it away. And since you’re not taking payment with money then you should at least take some of the crop.”

That all sounded very reasonable to him — even if crop was too big a word for such a little basket, but he still didn’t know what to do with any of it. He supposed he could instruct his housekeeper to use it in his dinner, but he knew she already had that scheduled and to disrupt her meal plan would put her in a bad mood for at least a week. Still, she didn’t know that and he was touched by her thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” he said, the words feeling thick and unfamiliar on his tongue. “But you don’t have to do this. I don’t even cook, I’m not sure how I’d use any of it.”

She jerked her head back, perplexed. “You don’t cook? How do you live?” she asked with a small, incredulous laugh.

He looked back at the lettuce, suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. Did she know that there was no one to eat with? Did she understand that he led a lonely life, filled with ledgers and rents and people who demanded things from him, but resented it when he came to collect what was due? It was a way of life so completely different than hers and he was unable to explain it, nor did he wish to. He had her warm smiles, sometimes. He didn’t need those to turn into ones of pity.

“I have a housekeeper,” he said, finally. “She keeps me fed.”

“ _Fed_?” she repeated, her cheek twitching. “Just fed? Don’t you enjoy food?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t like starving,” he told her.

Apparently that wasn’t a satisfying answer for she narrowed her eyes at him, pursing her lips into a small moue of irritation. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” he repeated, beginning to feel silly now.

“Hmm,” she agreed, clarifying nothing, but she soon perked up again and brought up a subject he would rather not discuss. “I, uh, noticed the fence,” she said with a small, dimpled smile.

It would be impossible not to notice it since it hadn’t been there six days ago. It was just a low picket fence, painted the same white as the trim on his shop, and a small gate underneath an arbor that was sturdy enough to grow something on if Belle chose to do so. Nothing elaborate, but certainly _noticeable_. Just as noticeable as the marigolds and violas she had planted to brighten up the plot of land. It would be a shame if it was all trampled upon.

“Yeah, well,” he began, pressing his hands on the counter and pushing himself away from her very tempting lips. “Dr. Hopper likes to walk Pongo through the alley sometimes. I figured…” he spread his hands out. “Best not tempt the dog.”

She bit her lip, ducking her head for a brief moment before looking back up at him, her eyes shining, trapping him with their clear blue brilliance. “And the rain barrel?”

“It must be hard lugging water across the street,” was all he could manage as he stared at her. “Um… it’s, uh, it must be hard work,” he finished awkwardly.

“Thank you,” she told him, leaning closer. The words sounded a lot more sincere when they came from her perfect lips than they did when he said them.

“S’no matter,” he said, truthfully, blinking the stardust from his eyes. He realized just then that he needed to guard his heart against her. She might not know the affect she had on him.

She pushed the basket towards him, urging him to accept it. “That’s the first basket. Leave it on the stoop and I’ll refill it. Uh, CSAs usually go weekly if that’s okay with you. Or, you could help yourself to whatever’s growing,” she told him with a self-conscious smile before she turned and was out the door before he could register what she said.

He plucked out another sprig of rosemary from the small bundle placed on top and stuck it into the apothecary bottle, now empty and waiting.

It smelled nice.

* * *

 

He took the basket home with him and gave it to Mrs. Potts to use, moody housekeeper be damned, but, to his surprise, she was happy to receive it, rifling through the contents with pleasure and that night he had a fresh salad in addition to the chicken and rice dinner she had prepared.

Still, he had no intention of imposing on Belle’s willingness to share. The basket stayed at his house and his meals returned to normal: very good and filling, but impersonal. In time, Belle would realize that her offerings were unnecessary and she would stop trying to befriend him and he could live in peace again. It was for the best really. He could feel himself becoming too drawn to her as it was. He was already half in love with the librarian already, it wouldn’t take much effort on her part , no matter how unwittingly done, to push him over that dangerous edge. He didn’t want to take that leap. He had already gone through two disastrous love affairs, enough to make him wary of anyone who might try to fill that empty spot in his life.

Not that Belle French was trying to fill any spot in his life. He knew she was just being polite. Just being neighborly and kind. But try to tell that to his traitorous heart. Try explaining it to that irritating sliver of hope that refused to die no matter how many times he tamped it down. There was no romantic meaning behind anything she did. Reading anything into it other than the friendly gesture it was was unfair to both of them.

Another couple of weeks went by and Gold deliberately didn’t stop by the garden when he knew she would be there, but he did watch her efforts during her absences, the tiny plot burgeoning with life in a controlled sort of chaos that pleased him. There was a small climbing rose planted on either side of the arbor he provided, still too young to provide much shade, but they would grow, eventually covering the archway in an abundance of flowers that would rival anything the botanical gardens had to offer. The tomatoes, staked along the side of the shop, grew tall and hung heavy with red fruit and he was tempted to take a couple to snack on during the day, but he resisted the temptation as if giving in even to them would be giving in to Belle. She’d lined the outside of the fence with small clumps of lavender and daisies alternately and he could see fuzzy bumble bees flitting about from flower to flower and he wondered if maybe she kept a beehive somewhere, Granny’s roof perhaps or maybe in the belltower of the library, and then he wondered if she would be interested in apiaries and if the space behind his shop would be far enough away from people but close enough to any flowers to support a hive.

Then he mentally slapped himself and carried on about his day.

The only sort of indulgence he allowed himself was a rosemary stem once a week to replenish the jar in his shop. A small fee for the use of his land.

The summer was passing by. The lettuce had bolted and were pulled out to be replaced by something that was still a mystery — all seedlings looked alike he realized and he found that he was anticipating what they would turn out to be with an eagerness that surprised him. He still saw Belle in passing, but no more often than he did before this whole CSA for Two took place. They exchanged pleasantries sometimes and once he went into the library under the pretext of looking for a specific book, but he didn’t take it any further than that. If he felt a small pang when she was in company of another man he understood that wasn’t her fault. He might have cultivated a relationship with her as carefully as she’d cultivated her garden, but he didn’t relish the prospect of heartbreak. He couldn’t pull his heart out of his chest as easily as Belle could pull out the spent lettuce and he certainly couldn’t replace it with seedlings as easily as she did.

So it was with more surprise (in this summer of surprises) that she came bursting into the shop near closing time, a nervous determination on her face even as she smiled at him.

The sound of the bell startled him, sending his hand jerking at the shock of her sudden presence, scratching an ugly line across his ledger. He stared at it then up at her in dismay, the breath nearly knocked out at the sight of her.

Her hands were once more clenched together in front of her abdomen in a pose he hadn’t seen since he came across her illicit gardening and she looked at him with wide, blue eyes that glimmered wet in the low light of his shop. She looked on the verge of tears and the monster that he’d kept hidden, that foul and dangerous beast inside him, reared its head and howled at the sight of her anguish. Something had happened. Something bad enough for her to come to him — he was always the last resort though usually the most effective.

“Did something happen, Miss French?” he asked, not even recognizing the sound of his voice. He grabbed the head of his cane in his fist and rushed around the counter towards her, ledger and its marred contents forgotten. “Tell me.”

It was her turn to look surprised and she shook her head at him, a look of amazement on her face as she watched him stalk closer. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Gold. I was just... thinking.  And wondering,” she said in a low whisper.

He didn’t understand. If she wasn’t hurt or in danger then why was she here? “You’re fine then?” he asked, uncomprehendingly. “Good. Good. That’s good.” Great, now he was babbling. He took a deep breath to regain his composure, the fear that she was in trouble beginning to fade away leaving behind an ache that throbbed behind his rib cage.

She fiddled with her pinky, bending it back until it stretched out, her other fingers compulsively rubbing against the knuckle. “I just… You never returned the basket,” she told him, her eyes pleading with him.

That monster inside him, now released from its cage and angry at the sight of her distress, bit down on his heart and growled. “I, uh, forgot about it,” he lied, swallowing heavily against the pain inside him. He wondered vaguely if he was having a heart attack. He hoped if he was that it wouldn’t happen until after Belle left. “Did you want it back?”

She laughed, short and brittle and the sound of it hurt even more than the heart attack he hoped he wasn’t having. “Not anymore. I had hoped that you…” her voice trailed away, looking out the window. “I hoped that you wanted, um…” she shook her head. “Well, it was silly I guess. I feel silly. And that I’ve wasted my summer,” she glanced at him, her mouth turned down in a frown that looked all wrong on her face.

He wrinkled his forehead, confused. “But the garden looks beautiful,” he said. “You’ve done so much work.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point? I only wanted a few fresh vegetables, I didn’t mean to do so much. But, when you let me use it, I thought you might be using it with me.” She took in a shaky breath, barely looking at him.

“Wait. Did you plant those things… for _me_?” he asked, even more confused than ever.

She gave him a tiny, wavering smile that disappeared as soon as it appeared. “I thought it would be nice to talk to you a bit. Maybe have dinner together or something.” She shook her head at herself. “I told you it was silly. You were clear that your weren’t interested and I’m just standing here like a… like a dope, confessing things I shouldn’t because I’m just so… so tired.”

He gaped at her, her words pinging around his brain in an incomprehensible jumble. He knew those words, every single one of them, but he didn’t know how they applied to him. It seemed impossible that she had pined for him as he had for her. Things like that didn’t happen to him. It seemed, though, that he’d wasted a very wonderful opportunity without knowing it.

He was just beginning to regain his speech to beg her forgiveness when she continued ahead of him.

Belle’s face was flushed red and she was biting her top lip in a brutal way that made his own lips hurt. Her shoulders dropped in defeat and she turned to walk away, probably for good.

“You aren’t going to say anything?” she asked, her voice high and tinny and sending small bolts to his heart. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Gold. I… I have to go.”

“Wait!” he cried out before she took one step. He quickly plucked the sprig of rosemary from its bottle and held it out towards her in a trembling hand. “It’s rosemary. For remembrance,” he said, urging her to take it from him. He knew where he could get more.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at the sprig in awe, then up at him in wonderment. “You remembered?” she said, taking it from him with her dainty fingers.

“Well, it is for remembrance,” he told her seriously, but he could feel his heart lightening, the knowledge that he wasn’t the only one affected by it bringing a small, lopsided smile to his face.

“This is fresh,” she said, holding it tight in her grasp.

“I get a new one every week,” he confessed, stepping closer until she had to look up, up, up into his eyes. She stood toe to toe with him, their chests touching with every breath they took. It felt so intimate to Gold, that small contact with her and he longed to hold her close. He suspected that he may still have a chance with her, one he wouldn’t throw away, but he didn’t know how to start. He was so out of practice, so completely lost that he feared that she would grow impatient again before he could figure things out.

“What did it remind you of,” she whispered.

He breathed her in, the scent of the rosemary mingling with her perfume in a mixture that went straight to his head. He cupped the side of her face with a hand, stroking the swell of her soft cheek with his thumb, marveling at the way she looked up at him, he lips parted as she took tiny little gasps. He leaned down, almost sure of himself, very nearly positive that he wasn’t about to mess up irrevocably, and savoring every second she gave him.

He leaned down, not allowing himself to think about it, just _doing_ for once, and pressed his mouth to her soft lips. She gasped into his mouth, wrapping her arms around him. One hand dove into his hair to grip at it, her nails scratching at his scalp sinfully as he held her close. Someone moaned, Gold feared that it was him, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed for it when Belle was willingling and wonderfully in his arms, her soft, sipping kisses driving him mad with distraction until they pulled away with a gasp.

Gold thought he probably looked just as wrecked as she did with his hair a mess from her fingers and his lips just as kiss-swollen, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted more and he would never let the opportunity to be near Belle pass him by. He was a fool. A stupid, stubborn fool for not taking a chance and he thanked his lucky stars that Belle had finally had enough and confronted him.

Panting wildly — she’s kissed the breath right out of him — he touched his forehead to hers. Her question was still hanging, unanswered. He wanted to leave nothing to misinterpretation. There had been enough of that this summer.

He reached down to her hand still holding the sprig of rosemary and cupped them both within his own, murmuring softly, “It reminded me of you.”


End file.
